From Girl In A Box Pt. 2: Jeanine Campbell: Siren's Silence Vol.2 No. 3

SLAM! The metal door bangs shut on the other side of my box, Italian shoes scuffling on the floor of my crypt, knocking on the window. He chose me. I hear him cursing, fiddling in frustration with the money box in the darkened chamber, shoving a deuce up the slot of the little black box on the other side of the confessional, that bleeps SESSION and devours the dollars of hard-working American men, the harvest of truckers and mobsters and lawyers, swallowing up the capitalist secrets and lies of the young white punks, middle-aged black guys with their SSI checks, ancient Asian men who tremble when they cum, cool-ass, cracked Latinos, your occasional slobbering drunken yuppie couple in one greedy, democratic gulp. This is America, dammit, and we're all free to exploit ourselves as long as we don't step on anyone else's turf, but the shutter is sliding up and so much for politics because there he is, standing there, middle-aged causcoid knight with thinning hair, big nose, pervert glasses which hide his ex-ray eyes that burn through the glass wall separating us. His hands are stuffed in a green LL Bean jacket which his wife probably got him last Christmas, trying to smile but obviously scared shitless of me, the whore, flicking my smoke and dropping dirty glitter on the palace floor. Believe it or not, I'm actually feeling a little sorry for the poor schmuck, this burn-out insurance salesman type who stands there looking a little dumb and a little fat at me, his slum queen, slumming it up here at Al's on this beautiful sunny afternoon...